Enforced Detachment
by Kenta Divina
Summary: Emotions get in the way. To save anyone you care for, you must abandon them. Mireille learned this under Claude Feyder. She was warned, but didn't listen.
1. Prologue: Deadweight

Author's Note: Just an idea that came a long time ago, but only recently found a way out. Mireille told Kirika not to get others involved. She sounded like it was from personal experience, and I was curious to know how.

Enforced Detachment

_Deadweight_

She remembered the first time she held a gun.

It looked so light in Uncle's hand, so bright and silver. He waited till her small hand wrapped around the diamond textured handle, then let go. She almost dropped it, eyes wide with surprise. How could something so small weigh so much?

"Mireille, don't drop it. Hold it like I showed you."

She tried, she really tried, but her fingers just barely met around the grip and the muzzle wavered at an imaginary target. He made it look so easy. Six-year-old arms started to shake at the effort.

"Put your finger on the trigger."

Her small index finger reached for the tongue of metal and squeezed. Nothing happened. She tried harder.

_Click_.

"Well done, Mireille. Now we'll just have to work on your stance and build up those muscles of yours."

She looked up at her Uncle, her hero, and sensed something troubling him. The feeling was not uncommon since they had left home over the ocean, but this was darker. A moment later he smiled at her, his face so very familiar to one she last recalled being full of sorrow.

"Uncle Claude? Did mommy ever shoot a gun?"

He blinked at the question before gently taking the pistol away from her. "Yes, she did. She was a brilliant markswoman, your mother. Better than me."

She giggled. "No one's better than you, Uncle Claude."

He smiled distantly before standing up from where he knelt beside her in the grass. Gathering up the remnants of the picnic, he tucked the gun into the bottom of the basket. She watched as he folded the red checkered blanket before picking up her brown stuffed bear and moving to stand next to him. For a long moment the pair stood looking out over the peaceful blue lake.

"Mireille, there is something you must know, even as young as you are."

She clutched her bear, sensing that he was about to say something hurtful. "What?"

With a sigh, the man bent and scooped her up with one arm, the basket balancing out her weight. "Emotions can be dangerous."

She stared at his good-natured profile before looking down at the bear in her hands. "Even love?"

"Love is the most dangerous of all."

"Why?"

Uncle Claude had smiled and kissed her on the forehead before answering, "Because it makes people do things that they shouldn't."


	2. Forward

Author's Note: Thank you to my reviewers, Swordskill and Zulu. I wasn't too sure on the age, but it wasn't that big a deal. Claude had said that the lake was the first place Mireille had been happy in a long time, and he knew that he would have to teach her how to fight as soon as possible due to their life on the run. As for a six-year-old asking the question about love, I have a cousin the same age who is constantly telling me that she loves me.

Forward

The school bell rang shrilly. Classroom doors exploded, pouring teenagers out into the hallway. Locker doors began slamming and loud voices carried on conversations that had been cut short and hour earlier. Clusters of bodies began to gather and push through the flow, all marked by companionship. Those on the outskirts of high school society ducked their heads and slipped around the circles, all except for one.

Long blond hair pulled back into an elastic band, Mireille Bouquet stalked through the crowd without hesitation. Wearing a black jean jacket over a pale lavender shirt and black pants, she habitually scanned faces as she walked. This was the second school she had transferred into for her freshman year of high school. The first one had become a little too curious into her family past. Brushing past a quartet of girls who were in the midst of trading fashion tips, she opened her locker door. The leader glared and whispered to her subordinates.

"I hear that she's a closet nerd – she's always in the computer lab."

"But she wears the nicest cloths."

"She's covering it up. Either that or else she's some gang member. I mean, do you remember that time before exams when she came in with those scabs on her arms and knees?"

"You mean, like a biker gang?"

"Well why not?"

Mireille rolled her eyes and slammed the metal door. Raising an eyebrow at the four girls, she shouldered her bag and walked towards the exit. How could she explain that Uncle Claude had made her practice rolling across hard surfaces all afternoon the day before she had a test. When she had complained, he had merely forced her to do thirty more.

There was a step on the linoleum behind her. "Miss Bouquet, may I see you for a moment?"

She sighed. Her grade had been slipping in her science class. It was a subject she truly enjoyed, but one with which she would have no future in. The teacher, Raoul Meyar, was a pleasant man with a light complexion from India. He was in his late twenties and had exceptionally large hands. Some of the students wondered if he had turned to teaching when his hands got in the way of the delicate instruments required in his preferred field of chemistry. But Mireille had watched him carefully and delicately measure drops of saline solution without any difficulty.

"Yes, Mr. Meyar?" She dropped her book bag onto a desk and turned to face him as he sat in the creaky plastic chair behind his desk.

"Miss Bouquet, I have noticed that you have been negligent in your studies over the last month. You were my top student when you first arrived, but now you seem distracted."

She smoothly replied, "I merely lost interest."

"Lost interest? Is the subject not… challenging enough? That seems to be a rather narrow-minded perspective." Meyar tapped his pen on his desk thoughtfully. "Or is it that other students have been pushing you to do other things?"

Mireille smiled dryly. Her fellow student's opinions didn't weigh an ounce of concern to her. However, what with the physical training she faced every evening on top of her homework and 'home schooling', she could easily say that she was being pushed 'elsewhere'.

"Sir, I enjoy science, but it is not my priority in school."

He looked at her sharply, brown eyes carefully examining the fourteen-year-old who carried herself so professionally. "Then what is, Miss Bouquet?"

"Survival." She said with a laugh. "And getting a good job."

Meyar smiled along with her, but his gaze did not change. "Well, I hope you balance out your priorities. You are a good student, and those are hard to find in persons your age. Have a good day, Miss Bouquet."

Mireille shrugged and picked up her bag. At the door she turned impulsively. "Mr. Meyar?"

The teacher looked up from the stack of tests he had begun to sort.

"I'm sorry."

When she had vanished into the hall, he tried to interpret the sad undercurrent of her voice.

Wrinkling her nose, Mireille scoffed to herself. _What was that? Apologizing to someone who has no clue about what I do – what I will do? Science is meant to save lives. I'm going to -_

The sensation of someone's hand on her left shoulder her had her pivoting away on her right heel and swinging her book bag at head level. The person tried to duck, but caught a glancing blow to the side of the head.

"Sheesh Mir! It's just me!"

She blinked. The person who had startled her straightened, rubbing his head. "Jeffery Thomas! How many times to I have to tell you not to sneak up on me like that?"

He shrugged, clear grey eyes laughing at her beneath dark brown hair in need of a cut. "Well, I thought that since I'm the only one who has the guts to prove that you're not a biker chick or a computer closet nerd, you would know it was me."

Mireille tried to glare, but couldn't stop the smile from slipping onto her face. "Well, just so you know, I have talents no one knows about."

"Ah, the book bag of doom. Well I will be sure to remember that."

They had reached the gate to the school. Before she could pass through the impressive metal archway that was the pride and joy of the school, Jeffery stepped in front of her,

"Mir, do you have any plans on Friday?"

She felt her heart jump and then plunge. Trying to brush him off, she casually answered, "I have to go somewhere with my Uncle."

He caught her by the hand. "You always say something like that. Can't you ask him? Be a normal girl for one night?"

She frowned and jerked away angrily. "I am normal, just not by some standards."

Jeffery sighed, spotting an approaching car. "Here comes your uncle. I just wanted to take you out to dinner or something."

Mireille turned to look just as Jeffery seized her hand again. "Just think about it – call me if you change your mind." He quickly kissed the back of her fingers before walking down the road.

Mireille stood frozen in surprise. At her uncle's impatient honk, she sprang into the passenger side seat. He turned away from the curb and passed the lonely figure of her friend who waved as the car passed.

"Mireille, who was that?"

With a sigh, she let her bag slip down to rest against her feet. "A friend, Uncle Claude."

"You've been going here for two months and you already have someone kissing your hand?"

Raising an eyebrow, Mireille glanced at her surrogate father. "Is that a problem?"

"Do you care about him?"

She shrugged uncomfortably. "He's the only friend I have, really, besides Kiranna."

"Take care, Mireille. You know this could lead to trouble."

"I know, Uncle."

He took a hand off of the steering wheel and gently patted her folded hands. "I don't want you to be hurt, so avoid any personal relationships for now. At least until we've found a stable position here in Paris."

She heaved another sigh. "So what do we do tonight?"

"We have a client."


	3. Prepared

Author's Note: Forgive the wait – I got caught up in another Fanfic, plus I was having issues with my brain on this scene. Also, my math for Mireille's age won't come out right, but I'm getting it as close as I can.

Prepared

With a click that signaled the preparation for death, Mireille drew back the hammer to her pistol. Checking her wristwatch, she waited. This job was a bit more complex, requiring perfect timing and perfect aim. The target itself was not all that impressive, just some gang member who was leaking information to the authorities. Fellow gangsters could not eliminate him due to some internal politics. Mireille couldn't help smirking to herself. _Gangs with a code of conduct – who would have thought_. The job could have been a simple night job, but Uncle Claude took the opportunity to add a few obstacles.

First, it was known that the target entered his apartment building at 7pm every evening by the North stairs. Windows gave a decent enough view of a person's progress up the flights, and Russel Krauss lived on the sixth floor. Her uncle had positioned her on the building across the street, ten yards away from the windows. A pistol wasn't designed for longer ranging shots, but it was something she would have to adapt to.

Second, when the client had approached Uncle Claude with the deal, they had warned that Krauss knew that his partners were plotting against him. Because of this, the man had taken to wearing a bulletproof vest under his cloths. It meant that only a head shot would be a sure thing.

And the final challenge came from the rapidly darkening clouds overhead. Not that Uncle Claude could control the weather, but it would be a very close thing if it began raining before she could finish her job. A night shot, in the rain, with only the building's stairway lights for illumination. She would never have chosen these conditions, but she could understand why the practice was needed.

"You can plan everything to the finest detail, Mirielle, but you must be able to adapt to any change."

Uncle Claude was waiting in Krauss's room as her backup. However, he had warned her that he would only take action if he never heard the shot – or the breaking of a window pane since she had attached a silencer to her pistol. They would take separate routs back to their small apartment once the kill was confirmed. She knew that her uncle had been watching her extra closely as of late. He had been a fierce taskmaster in training, but she understood that it was only out of kindness. They were all that was left of the Bouquet family, with no one but themselves to rely on and the wits and skills of an assassin were the only way to ensure their survival. Besides, she had asked for it.

Mirielle took a firmer grip on her weapon. She was seventeen and talented in terrorism when most girls her age were talented in clothing and makeup. Not that she didn't, the elegant dark green blouse spoke otherwise, but her concerns ran along a level of darkness that most people tried to ignore. A man was going to die tonight, not that many would care. But she knew that somewhere, a mother would cry at the news and perhaps a wife, or in the future, a child would wonder who did the executing.

The sky grumbled.

Checking her watch, Mirielle rose to peek over the edge of the roof. Seven o'clock was thirty seconds away. To her surprise she could see someone walking up the stairs, catching a flash of red in the window on the third story. Hissing under her breath, she raised her gun, rapidly trying to calculate his speed of ascension.

_One_… -one, two, three, four,

_Two_… -one, two, three, four,

_Three_… -one, two, three…

The man appeared in the seventh floor window and she pulled the trigger. With an almost musical chiming, the glass shattered and the figure vanished. The spray of clotted blood on the wall gave her enough confidence that he would never recover. Quickly unscrewing the silencer from the muzzle of her pistol, Mirielle tucked it into the garter beneath her short jean skirt. The pistol was tucked into her handbag. She could hear a woman screaming in the building across the alley but paid no attention to it.

Just for fun, she sat down on the banister of the spiral staircase that led down the fire escape. It was well maintenanced for being a run-down building. She slid all the way down to the bottom with a muffled giggle. Taking a moment to straighten her clothing, she carelessly breezed through the lobby of the apartment complex.

It was raining by the time she reached the door. She paused with a sigh.

"Can I help you?"

She turned, instinctively clutching her bag closer. The man who asked her the question raised an eyebrow, looking her over. He was a large man, but not unfit by the way his black cotton shirt stretched over well muscled arms. Brown eyes skimmed over her figure, and white teeth gleamed in an easy smile. His light brown hair needed a trim, but he was quite charming. Mirielle played along.

"I seem to have left my umbrella at home. Is there a way to call a cab?"

"Well now, not many cabs like to come out here after dark. What's a lovely lady like yourself doing out here? The gangs would like to get their hands on someone like you."

"I had a friend who needed my help."

He turned to walk to the back of the lobby. "A good friend you are, to come to a place like this."

Mirielle shrugged. "If you could get a cab here, I would appreciate it. If not, then I'll walk."

The man nodded and picked up the phone. She looked out through the watery window and frowned.

The information they had been given about Krauss was sparse saying only that he was six feet tall, two hundred pounds, had short red hair, and had a scar on the back of his neck. Why was there a man fitting that description except with black hair standing outside the apartment complex?

She took a closer look. The man was calmly lighting a cigarette and deliberately fixed his gaze across the rainy street at her. With a gasp, she tried to recoil, only to feel the muzzle of a gun pressed to the back of her head.

"Didn't expect an assassin to be so young. Shouldn't you be in bed little girl?"

Mirielle tried to play innocent. "What are you doing?"

The man chuckled. "Don't play with me miss, we knew that it was a set up – we wanted it to be predictable. There are more than one red-headed men living in that building."

Slowly she turned to face her captor; the charming smile on his face had faded into a smirk. Hands raised, she smiled in return. "Well I think we're at an impass. The people across the street will see you assaulting a teenager."

"No," His gun never moved. "They are too preoccupied by the mess you made. But if you tell me who hired you, you might get out of this with only a spanking."

Her smile dropped. "I'm sorry if that thought doesn't appeal to me."

Smoothly hooking her left wrist around the one holding the gun to her face and pushing it away, Mirielle brought her elbow harshly up and into the man's throat. The pistol went off, making her left ear go temporarily deaf. Using the momentum from her first blow, she planted one palm in his shoulder, and slipped her right leg behind his own and levered him over her hip and onto the floor, still holding on to the wrist with the weapon.

The man had the advantage of brute strength, but she had speed and agility. Her purse dangled from the arm that held him captive, just for an instant. In that instant, she reached into her bag and withdrew her own pistol. His eyes widened and she pulled the trigger.

Blood splattered her skirt. Her ear was ringing. She stood and took a shaky breath before switching into her escape mentality. A glowing red exit sign looked like the best bet. Gun cocked in her hand, Mirielle pressed the handlebar and blacked out.

Author's Note:

I'm not abandoning this story – but I'm going to be busy.


End file.
